Plague
by Sorcerer Swordsman
Summary: The story of a 15-year old guy named Drake, how his life plays out after discovery of his X-factor, and how others would manipulate him for their own means. Mostly original, but features the X-men, Magneto, and the Brotherhood of Mutants.
1. Extreme Days

Drake crouched behind the bricks and trash, nervously spinning his knife in his fingers with the ease of a pro. The Texas concrete seared his bare feet, but he was used to this by now. The market he had his eye on was about to be deserted at its usual time. Mrs. Martinez, as he had labeled the overweight Hispanic women that ran the particular fruit stand he was interested in, was two minutes away from her 10:00 bathroom break, give or take.

His blood-red pupils scanned the area to see who was watching. Everyone appeared to be minding their own business, but that wasn't good enough. He needed a distraction if he was to remain unnoticed. 15 year olds dressed in rags were noticeable, even in Dallas, and being noticed would not help his situation.

Searching still, his eyes met another Hispanic, this one older but skinnier than Mrs. Martinez. He had labeled her Ms. Gonzalez, and had more than once seen her socializing with Martinez over more than fruit. She turned her back and he saw his chance.

Picking up a rock, he flung it expertly at the carefully stacked oranges, hitting the pile in its epicenter. The heap wobbled for a split second and then came crashing down. One rolled to Drake. Smiling at the irony, he cut it in two with his knife and stuck a half in each pocket.

As Mrs. Martinez went to go help her neighbor, he walked casually to her fruit stand and grabbed an apple, quickly taking a bite out of it. He took two more for each hand and strolled off, another grin on his face. The women were still cleaning the mess up, a mere twenty feet away from him.

Just as he was about to turn the corner, he felt a tap on his shoulder. Whirling around, he was faced with a tall, sturdy cop at least fifteen years older than him.

"Son, I know I didn't just see you take those apples without paying for them."

Putting on his most innocent face, Drake answered, "Of course not, officer."

The cop smiled. "Good. In that case, I want to watch you go return those to Mrs. Rodriguez."

Rodriguez, Drake thought. Martinez, Rodriguez, whatever. He'd known it was a baseball name. "Sorry, officer, I'm afraid I can't do that."

The face grew sterner. "And why not?"

Drake put his whimsical grin back on. "Because I've got to run!" A swift kick to the gut doubled the cop over, and Drake was gone.

"Wait!" shouted the officer. "Stop;" but the cries fell on deaf ears. Drake had already turned the corner and was halfway up the fire escape home. Scrambling up the ladder, he reached the roof of the warehouse where he lived. The roof, that is, not the warehouse. Laying his apples on the concrete, he quietly looked over the roof to make sure that his pursuer had given up chase.

Satisfied, he pulled half the orange and his knife out of his right pocket and began peeling. Another successful lunch, he thought as he bit into the fruit. Puckering at the acid, he locked the black handled knife back into place.

"Wonder what time it is," he muttered. He pulled his gold pocket watch from his left pocket, wiping the orange juices off the metal. He took a moment to read the inscribed letters, _TO DRAKE FROM DAD_. The last thing he had from his parents. He blinked and opened it up for the time. 3 o'clock. A few more hours till sunset.

Enough time to scrounge money for a Coke.

He put the watch back in his pocket, the knife in the other, and finished his orange with a chomp. "I hate oranges," he said to no one in particular. He spit off the roof and started climbing down the fire escape.

An hour later and three blocks away from home, he was 37 cents richer. The Coke machine he usually frequented accepted pennies, which helped him tremendously on days when money wasn't growing out of the cracks. In truth, he had also found a nice, crumpled 5 dollar bill, but that didn't count. All bills went in his glass jar in the event of a real emergency, not towards food that he could just as easily steal.

The first day he went scrounging like this he had wondered how he must look to people on the street, staring at the ground and walking around. The third, he came to the realization that his ripped, never washed clothes were probably much more noticeable than his actions.

Reaching down again for a nickel, he realized he wasn't alone. Behind him, panting loudly and wagging its tail, was a golden Labrador, gazing at him happily.

"Scat, mutt," Drake shot at it. The dog barked in reply.

"Don't let me start to like you, dog." The dog sat more quietly, but the delighted grin remained. It rolled on its back, waiting for a tummy rub.

Drake's glare melted and he bent to give the dog what it wanted. The Lab licked its lips and panted in satisfaction. Drake stopped, and the dog hopped up to a sitting position.

"Well, see ya, pup." Drake turned back around to continue his quest for quarters, leaving the dog.

He had taken almost 30 steps when he realized the dog was following him. "Oh crap," he sighed in exasperation. "You can't come with me dog! I live on a friggin' roof! Unless you can climb, get going."

The dog's tail wagged faster and he stayed put.

Drake sighed and reached into his pocket, pulling out the other orange half. He held it up to the dog's nose to peak interest and let it fly about fifty feet away. The dog went scampering after it. Drake smiled in satisfaction.

"I wouldn't laugh so quickly, son," warned a middle-aged man on the sidewalk.

"What do you mean?" Drake questioned nervously.

The man laughed and pointed behind him. "You'll see."

The Lab was back, its mouth wet with citrus juice. "That dog'll never leave you now, son. You've fed it and made it feel at home with you. You're stuck with him."

"W-what? Are you sure?" Drake's face betrayed his feelings.

"'Fraid so. Sorry to break it to you. Your mom's gonna have a fit, I'm guessing." It was said almost as a question.

Drake paused carefully before responding. "Yes sir, she'll have a fit all right." He glanced at his imaginary wristwatch. "Well, I need to be getting home, I suppose." His face suddenly lightened with an idea. "Wait! Um, I was wondering, can you spare a dollar or so? I was supposed to be picking up fruit for my mom and that orange I threw the dog was what I bought. So I'm in major trouble if I come home with a dog and nothing to show for it, if you get my meaning."

The man fished around and pulled out a dollar bill and handed it to him. "Sure. Good luck with the dog and all." The man tipped his hat and the two—make that three—went their separate ways.

Despite his unwanted companion, Drake cracked a grin at his trick. Tying the dog and fruit into getting money was a nice touch, he thought. He whistled his way to the Coke machine and on top of it all found a quarter, saving him the use of his crisp bill.

Reaching home during sunset, he climbed to his roof, leaving the dog below. The Lab shot him a dejected look from the street, but kept quiet. Drake smiled guiltily. "What do you want me to do, carry you?"

Reaching the top, he split open an apple with the knife and took out the seeds. He looked over the rooftop and tossed the dog one half. The animal gave a leap and caught it in his mouth, chomping down. Looking satisfied for now, the golden dog sat up straight against the wall and looked ahead.

"Oh, so I've got a scout now?" Drake smiled. "Well, I guess I could do worse."

Scout simply looked ahead, but his tail was wagging and his ears perked up. Drake smiled and looked at his small little home.

All it really consisted of was a small gray tarp over a card table Drake had found at a dump. Inside, however, were all of his private things. His jar of dollar bills, to which he added his new 1. His other knives, the ones that held no sentimental value. A few batteries, a flashlight, a lighter, matches. Two blankets, one for warmth, one for a pillow. His only other T-shirt. And finally, his comic books, the only real entertainment he found in his survival-devoted life.

Most were X-Men and Superman, but his favorites were Spider-Man, Punisher and most of all, Daredevil. He loved the way the Man in Red used his senses alone and still managed to beat everyone he opposed. Besides, Elektra was hot.

Crawling under his blanket, he finished his half of the apple and set his knife and pocket watch next to him, kissing both before drifting off. The knife at the tip, and the watch right on the word _DAD_.


	2. Old Ties

Drake woke with a start, feeling the cold steel on his throat. The teenager a few years older than him greeted his groggy prisoner with a toothy smile. "Did you really think the Lords would just let you walk away, Baxter?" He spat off the side of the building. "We don't work that way, Drake. Luther doesn't work that way. Now get up!"

Drake rose, becoming painfully aware of his situation. The tarp partially lifted, he could see the sun had not risen yet. The knife at his throat was not one of his, nor were any of his in view. Brian here had obviously been smart enough to pocket them first. His pocket watch was still here, lying next to his head just as the night before. Brian was wearing the customary Lords black leather jacket, with the gold patch on the right arm. Obviously since Drake's absence from the gang Brian had worked his way up in Luther's good graces.

Judging distance, he could see that the bended position Brian was in put Drake in an interesting position. He could afford to land a solid kick and fly down the fire escape, but if he did, he would lose his knives and possibly, if Brian was faster than he (though he doubted it, judging by his burly build), his life.

"Get up!" Brian had ordered. The thoughts flew in and out of Drake's head in three seconds, and he made his choice. A swift kick to the neck caused Brian to drop the knife as he groped for his Adam's apple. The gamble had paid off; Drake caught the knife as it fell.

He jumped up, holding the knife menacingly. He kicked Brian to the floor and rested his foot on the already throbbing neck of his attacker. Before anything else, he snatched his pocket watch off the ground and stuffed it in his pocket. He locked the knife back and stuck it in his pocket as well, to prevent another power swap. "All right, Brian, I want answers."

Brian nodded, desperately trying to swallow. Drake lightened his foot hold slightly to allow the Lord to breathe. Drake continued his interrogation. "What does Luther want with me? I thought we had an agreement. I left; he took control of the gang."

Brian spoke up, his voice scratchy but understandable. "The Lords' rep has been down since you left, man. Everybody stayed off our turf while you were boss, but when you walked out, we lost our control."

"It was my decision to walk, Brian. Luther said he understood that."

"Man, he just said that so he could be boss. Now, he's not even sure he wants to be."

Drake sighed. "I would have stuck around, you know. Fight nights on Fridays, controlling every dark alley in Downtown, being most feared teenager in Dallas. But Luther had to get involved with drugs."

"Man, you knew when you got into this there would be drugs. What've you got against them?"

Drake's eyes narrowed, the curiously red pupils flaming. "What if I told you my parents were gunned down by a drug dealer? What if I told you drugs left me an orphan? What if I told you drugs made me the only friggin' gang member in Dallas without a tattoo? What would you say to that?"

"I'd say you were weak, Drake. Just like I always said you were weak." A voice from behind, not from Brian. Drake reached for his knife as he turned, and clamped down his foothold on his attacker's neck. The man behind him, black, 20 years old, with a shaved head, stared back at him, noticeable unarmed.

"Well, Luther, long time-"

"No see. That's why I'm here, Baxter. I want you back as boss of the Lords. I want our turf back. The Drags have Deep Ellum, and if you don't come back, they'll get Fourth and Oak too."

Drake was growing impatient. "I left, Luther. I thought that was pretty clear. When I threw the leader's jacket in your god-forsaken face and turned the corner with half the gang on the ground, I thought we had an understanding. I named you successor, and you're not giving that title up till you're old or dead."

"You did."

Drake paused an raised an eyebrow. "You're not me, Luther. And all of Dallas knows it now. Now, take this helpless piece of crap here you call a second-in-command and get off my house."

Luther frowned. "I don't think so. It's time you knew how this feels." He took off his leather black jacket with Lord of Lords on the back and threw it in Drake's face. The teenager paused, shocked at the defiance.

He took his foot off of Brian and walked backwards to the ledge of the roof. "I don't think so, Luther. I already told you, you aren't me." And, with a sudden whirl, he threw the sacred Lord of Lords jacket off the ledge.

Brian gasped and Luther almost cried out. His lip curled into a snarl. Drake merely smiled sadly. "I really thought you might be a strong leader, but it's obvious to me that you're weak after all. I should've known the Lords were dead when I left them in your command that night in Deep Ellum."

Luther glared, speechless. Drake spoke for him. "Now, I'll repeat. Get—off—my—house. But first, I'll be taking my knives back, Brian." Brian paused, unsure of which leader to listen to. "Unless you want a broken nose to add to your list of injuries." Brian pulled out five knives, including Drake's personal one, and threw them at his feet.

Drake bent down to pick them up, and it was not until then that he realized his mistake. Brian bull-rushed and barreled into him, sending the card table and tarp sailing off the building. Caught by surprise, Drake had time only for a quick fulfillment of his promise to Brian, punching his nose only to hear the sickening crunch of the bones snapping.

But Luther was already behind him, his left arm locked with both of Drake's and his right choking him in a headlock. With Brian cradling his broken nose, Drake focused on his real opponent. Mustering all the upper-body strength he had, he flipped Luther forwards onto the concrete.

The freedom of his arms gave him time to grab a the switchblade he had taken from Brian and snap it open. He faced the Lord of Lords, one weak and cowering, one armed and angry. The true Lord walked to the false one with the knife raised high.

"You know what happened last time I held the knife like this, Luther? Ask your buddy Brian. Yeah, the one over there with the broken nose trying not to swallow his Adam's apple. If you make one more move, I swear to God I will slit your throat."

Luther, trembling with humiliation and hatred, looked up at his predecessor, the legend he could never and would never live up to. Gathering the only courage he had left, he charged one final time at Drake. The sun was rising.

The knife was raised high to avoid the pitiful Lord, but the leader's momentum carried him off the building three stories below. A sickening thud rang in Drake's ears, a sound he would never be able to forget.

Brian panted heavily. "I saw it, Drake! I saw you kill him, with my own two eyes! You try to play the good guy, the noble one, but you're just like us! A killer, cold as Luther was."

Drake spun and spat in his face, right on the broken nose. "I am nothing like that bastard."

And with that, he spun around and scurried down the fire escape, not knowing where he was going, but knowing he had to go.

It was not until the next morning that he realized Scout's dead carcass had been waiting for him at the bottom of the ladder.


	3. Mass Graves

Drake weighed his options carefully. Luther was the dead, the Lords were momentarily leaderless, he had left a weak follower on his home with a broken nose, and his stomach was growling.

Right now, his best bet would be to approach his old gang before they found anything out. There were still plenty that remembered his legendary stint as Lord of Lords, and they were not likely to forget. They would listen, if persuaded properly.

He continued walking, careful to look inconspicuous and untroubled. When he reached the old Budweiser factory with the graffiti painted along the sides, he stopped. He took a deep breath, put on an authoritative face, and kicked the door down.

The table in the center, surrounded by scruffy, tattooed teenagers, sent its poker chips flying. The teens themselves reached for weapons.

Quick as always, Drake sent a knife into the arm of a Hispanic that had been going for a gun. Blood ran down his arm, but did not gush or spew, ensuring that no vital artery had been hit. The boy grabbed at it and bit his lip until blood came from it too. Drake smiled the same sordid smile he always seemed to have. "Honey, I'm home."

He assessed the situation. There were only five guys there at the moment, all older and stronger than him. He counted three guns total and a blade for every Lord. However, Drake only recognized two of them, so he was the best fighter out of anyone there. Plus, if he could get the embedded knife back, his blade total would equal their's.

"I'm not looking for a fight, guys," he started. "But the spirit is willing, and if you've heard anything about me, you know the body's not weak." He spat in contempt. "Look at you. Is this what Luther turned you into? When I was boss, you would have been planning the next rumble. Now what are you doing? Playing cards, waiting for your precious Luther to come back and tell you what to do."

A black kid, looking to be about 16, with a skull tattoo on his right arm, spoke up. "Where is Luther? He said he was bringing a new guy back with him. Are you the new guy?"

Drake gave a genuine laugh. "New guy. Ha, that's a good one. Every heard of Drake Baxter? Founder of this little group? First and only real leader of the Lords?"

The kid stared at him suspiciously. "Yeah, I've heard stuff. You him?"

Drake's smile never wavered. "Ask the guy about to faint from loss of blood."

The Hispanic, Roberto De Santos, nodded drowsily. "Yeah, that's him." He struggled to get his T-shirt off to cover the wound. "Who else could pin me like that?"

Drake replied, "Not Luther."

The black kid spoke up again. "Where _is_ Luther, man? I already asked once, I won't do it again."

Drake let his smile fade into a smirk. "He took a tumble off my roof. Not my fault, I'm sorry to say. Your buddy Brian's up there too, but he's damaged goods at this point."

Roberto, pressuring the wound, asked if Luther was dead.

Drake frowned. "Yeah. You need a new boss, boys. Thought I should tell you now instead of having you find out on the streets. You got anything to eat around here?"

"Same place it always was, fridge full of pizza and beer on the second floor."

"Good. I won't stay long."

One kid, a white guy about 20 years old with a brown buzz cut, whipped out a switchblade. "I don't think so, buddy. You don't walk in here and take your pick of our food. I don't care who you are."

"You will," Drake muttered. He too pulled out a knife. "Pull back everybody; it's time for a show. Anyone else want to help out?" No one moved. "Didn't think so. Let's get this over with."

The guy, about 200 pounds from the looks of him, rushed forward, knife held high. Drake landed a rock hard kick to his stomach and grabbed his right arm. Pulling the wrist back as far as he could, he heard a snap and Buzz Cut came crashing down, his knife falling to the floor. He grasped at his wrist, but rose, snatching his knife with the other arm.

"Gotta give you credit, you've got more guts than the other guys I fought this morning," Drake remarked as he sidestepped another bull rush. "Less sense though." Cocking his arm, he uppercut Buzz Cut. A bloody tooth popped out onto the poker table.

"Full house!" shouted Drake as he flipped his attacker onto the poker table. He took a running start, jumped as high as he could, and landed his feet on the stomach with all the force he could muster. The unused knife clattered to the floor as Buzz Cut fell into unconsciousness. Picking up the knife, Drake locked it back and dropped it into his pocket.

Wiping away the first bead of sweat from his brow, he continued to the kitchen. "Anyone that wants pizza can join me!"

The pepperoni was cold, but so was the beer. No one in the gang had disturbed him since the fight, and that had been 20 minutes ago. "I should probably go check on them, he thought. He gulped the last swig of beer and threw the bottle against the wall, shattering it instantly. It was an old Lords tradition, destroy what you don't need. Memories, good and bad, of gang life came rushing back to him.

How a fifteen year old had every risen so high he would never know, but when this had been his home, he had been confronted by ten kids near his age asking for a handout. He had not so kindly refused them, and they had all drawn knives. Beaten to a bloody pulp, he had offered them his home and food if they would spare him. They accepted.

Throughout the following weeks, he had not slept more than 2 hours a night, working his body to its limits, training for the day when they would come back for another handout. The desire for revenge and to make himself better than he was consumed him. He spent four days straight once lifting weights and doing pushups, stopping only for an apple and a dozen bottles of water.

The day came, and when he again refused, this time there were ten bigger pulps on his floor. Again though, the offer came from his lips. If they would respect him as a leader, he would give them his home and food permanently. They accepted.

The Lords were formed under him, and it was universally understood that he could take down anyone that opposed him. New members came, but no one left. Until that fateful day when he caught Luther on the phone.

His best friend in the gang, Luther had been on the phone setting up a drug deal. Drake chose to do nothing about it, allowing his anger to stew until two nights later. The Lords approached the site of the deal, but the dealer never showed up.

Questions arose, and Drake answered them in full. The deal was off, he said, and so was he. Taking off the Lord of Lords jacket, he had flung it in Luther's face, as well as all of its burdens and responsibilities. A fight had ensued, the hardest Drake had ever fought, but in the end, only he was left standing, and the jacket remained on the incapable back of Luther.

The legend was over, and so were the Lords.

Breaking away from his memories, he descended the stairs. It was eerily quiet. Ambush, he thought. They never learn, do they? Looking around, he could see no one. But then, his eyes bore into the corner, and spotted the bodies. Buzz Cut, Roberto, and the others were piled on top of each other, five dead bodies in a stack. He stepped back, appalled.

"An ugly sight, is it not?" asked a deep, chilling voice. Behind him, floating above the ground in purple and red, a majestic figure of authority and power, stood the Master of Magnetism. Magneto sneered, his eyes narrowing. "I've never like mass graves."


	4. First Impressions

I debated with this after the last chapter, and I've decided this story really fits under Ultimate X-Men, but there are only a few references that differ from that universe and the Marvel one, so I'm not going to change it to the Ultimate Marvel category. This category gets more reviews J

Drake smirked. "Nice monkey suit. Your mom iron that cape for you?"

Magneto frowned. "I've come to make you an offer, my young friend. You are aware of who I am?"

Drake's grin didn't waver. "Which version do you want? Master of Magnetism, visionary for mutie-kind, or terrorist?"

Magneto sneered. "I prefer the first two, but all three are accurate, I suppose. All human terms, I might add."

"We did sort of coin those, didn't we? Sue us for creativity."

"Any appearance of mine in your ridiculous legal system would hardly be for a civil case."

The verbal roller coaster halted.

Magneto removed his helmet. "You are aware that you're a mutant?"

That did surprise Drake, but he did not show it. "You are aware you've said 'you are aware' twice in the last thirty seconds?"

"Answer the question, Mr. Baxter. My patience is thinning."

"So's your hair."

Magneto's eyes flashed. "Answer the question before my impatience at your childishness becomes anger. People tend to get hurt when I'm angry."

Drake paused, suddenly extremely conscious of the amount of metal around him. He took a deep breath. "I'm a mutie?"

"Mutant."

"Whatever."

"What do I do?"

"A touch from your fingertips transmits a disease to the skin of any animal tissue, including that of humans and mutants. This disease seeps into the bloodstream and slowly heats the blood. Within hours, the blood boils to lethal levels. Your touch causes death in a matter of 18 hours, so far as we can determine."

Drake raised an eyebrow. "How do you know?"

"We've been monitoring you for the past few days. Every person—or dog—you've touched in that time are dead. So if you want to be technical, I suppose your gang friends here were really given a quicker death."

Drake's smile vanished. "I only touched one of them."

Magneto stared coldly. "Details bore me."

"You said 'we' earlier. Who else is with you?"

"My Brotherhood of Mutants. My family."

"Are they here?"

"One of them."

"Where?"

"Does it matter?"

"Yes."

"Mystique, show yourself."

A blue figure in a cut off, black leather tank top leapt down from the rails of the stairs, growing wings to break her landing. Her red hair stood out amidst the smooth blue skin and black clothes. The impromptu wings slid back into her sides.

"The name's Raven, Mr. Baxter. You can call me Mystique."

He offered a handshake, but she pulled hers back. "I think that might not be such a wise idea, Mr. Baxter. If what Magneto says is correct, you won't be shaking any unprotected hands without prior permission."

He sheepishly took his hand back and faced Magneto. "Does she have to stay? I was more comfortable with the terrorist. At least he's human."

A sharp backhand had Drake on the ground, Magneto's furious face inches away from his. "If you ever say that again, you will be dead."

Magneto put his devilish helmet back on and rose to his feet and offered Drake his gloved hand. Mystique was no where to be seen.

Drake looked up at the mutant, the hand, and spat in his face. He rose under his own power and turned his back. "I don't even know what you want."

"I'm offering you a home and a family. A place where you would belong, where you would have friends and loved ones."

"What's the catch?" Suspicion was written all over his face.

Magneto's cocked an eyebrow. "What makes you think I would lie to you?"

"That terrorist label, for starters. It's a little hard to ignore, you know what I mean?"

"I'm aware—"

"You said it again."

"This little meeting is growing tiresome, young one."

"Finally, something we agree on."

Magneto snapped his fingers, and the stair railing was hovering inches from Drake's face. Another snap, and its front had melded into a razor sharp tip. "Now, down to business. How does my proposition sound?"

Drake's black eyes were cold as pewter. "Not too bad. But maybe Charles Xavier has a better one."

Magneto sneered. "So you've heard of Charles? Perhaps you should ask him for his offer. Perhaps. Better yet, ask Betsy Braddock. Or Henry McCoy."

That shut Drake up. "The Beast? Would if I could. But since none of them seem to be available at the moment and with that crap pointed at my jugular, I'll go with your option. Beats living on a roof, right? But I have a condition."

Magneto narrowed his eyes. "I'm not in a bartering mood."

"It's simple. I get to bring my stuff with me."

"What 'stuff'?"

"All my knives, a pocketwatch, some comic books, some money."

Magneto was visibly relieved. "Human money will be of no use to you in Genosha, but everything else is fine. Now, come."

He turned his back, and Drake found his opportunity. He reached for his knife as fast as he ever had and hurled it at the mutant. Without turning his back, Magneto raised a hand. The knife rattled to the floor inches away from his feet, its blade reshaped as a silver M. The mutant bent down and retrieved the knife. Staring amusedly at his new follower, he tossed the metal to him. Drake, still shocked, bobbled it, but got a firm grip on the handle.

Magneto cocked his head at Drake's bemused stare. "Keep it. Think of it as a souvenir from home.

"Now that we have that formality out of the way, follow me. Mystique!"

A nearby cockroach rose morphed into the attractive blue mutant and followed her leader. Dumbstruck, Drake picked up his knife and scampered towards his new master.

"Magneto!"

The Master of Magnetism turned around and faced his new disciple.

"You beat down the Ultimates once, right?"

Magneto nodded, his face expressionless.

"And the X-Men?"

Magneto paused, but nodded again.

"Ok—cool."

But under his breath, he muttered, "This is gonna be a wild ride."

Ok, halfway through, my opening statement became a fib, since there isn't an Ultimate Mystique as of now. So just think of this as a mostly Ultimate Universe with some personal changes by me in order to further the story. After all, the story's the thing, right?

By the way, sorry it takes me so long to update each time, but school's killing me. I'll do my best to update every week, but bear with me. Expect new chapters on Friday, Saturday, or Sunday.

Sorcerer Swordsman


	5. Bad Memories

From what Drake had seen on news reports, the X-Men's jet was nothing compared to Maggie's. This one, christened the Crow (after all, the X-Men had a Blackbird), was twice as big, with engines that would have made Nick Fury drool. It was undetectable under radar, could reach Mach 3, and had the amenities of a commercial airliner.

Magneto sat in the copilot chair next to Mystique, but did noticeably little in the way of flying the plane. "Must be hard to rely on metal to get 10,000 miles when you can reshape it with a stray thought," thought Drake. He sat behind Magneto, under the watchful yellow eyes of Mystique.

He stared out the window as they crossed over the Grand Canyon, habitually twirling his favorite knife between his fingers. Mystique sighed suggestively, but Drake did not pay attention.

"Mr. Baxter, could you please stop that? It's distracting," requested Mystique, though with a distinct grind in her voice.

Drake looked up. "Oh, yeah, sure." He grasped the knife and Mystique turned back around. Without thinking about it, he began spinning it again. Mystique, her peripheral vision betraying her, did not sigh this time. She merely whirled around, landing a spinning kick to Drake's hand, then returned to her seat all without moving her hand from the controls. The knife flew backwards, the angle embedding it in the carpet.

Mystique cocked an eye in his direction. "Next time I will not kick that knife _away_ from you."

Drake took the warning seriously and went to retrieve his knife. "I'm going to go to the bathroom, guys."

Magneto spoke for the first time since takeoff. "Understood. Don't get any ideas though."

Drake furrowed his brow. "What?"

Magneto ignored the question, as did Mystique. Shrugging his shoulders, Drake headed to the lavatory.

When he finished, he sat there a few seconds longer, fully aware for the first time what he was doing. He had just knowingly agreed to go home with an international terrorist tied to thousands of deaths. 24 hours earlier, he was scrounging downtown Dallas for spare change.

"What the hell have I done?" he whispered. "I'm a good kid. Raised by two parents, with a baby brother, went to church every Sunday, made good grades, had good friends. What happened to me?"

Drugs happened to him, that's what. It started with what, a snort of crack, a small joint? Then moved on to some heavier stuff, ecstasy. This was eighteen friggin' months ago!

Of course, alcohol was no biggie. His youth minister, his pastor, his parents, even his younger brother, only eight, knew something was going on. Why hadn't he been able to stop himself? What was wrong with him?

Of course, none of these thoughts had gone through his mind when he was high. Just that incredible feeling. Like he was flying through air thin as paper. No cares, no problems. Hakuna matata.

Then, it happened. On the way to the church parking lot, of all places. Just two blocks, no need for a car ride. He wasn't high, and for that he was thankful. His dealer, whom he'd met for the first time about three months prior to then, had come to collect.

Drake's mother wept, and her knees shook like jelly, begging the dealer to leave them alone. It wasn't her baby he was looking for.

The dealer saw his opportunity and snatched his mother's pearls off her necks, the silvery balls clattering to the ground, and his mother's scream resounding as she clutched the back of her neck.

His father's yell and step forward, fist raised to defend his wife. Then, the echoing "BLAM" and the graceful arc of his father's body falling to the ground. His mother's knees giving out as she fainted, her head slamming to the concrete first, blood all over the sidewalk.

Then, most tragic of all, his eight year old baby brother, showing more foolish courage than he would ever be able to show, lunging at the burly black man that towered over him and taking a bullet in the chest. Then one in the head.

The dealer just grimaced, spat, and turned to collect his money. Drake's tears would not come, but the money was hastily thrust into the hands of the murderer. The dealer simply turned around and walked away.

His mother and brother were already dead, but his father had seconds remaining. Drake would never forget leaning down to stare his father in the eyes as one of them died physically and the other emotionally.

"Son—"

Drake's tears came as he heard his father and saw the blood spurt out of his mouth.

His father had only seconds left to live. "You've disappointed me."

Drake broke down, but he heard the final words, the faint whispers. "Don't let it happen again. I love you—"

Then the hand went limp.

Back in the lavatory, Drake's tears again would not come.

That was when he realized what Magneto had meant about getting ideas. There was a latch on the floor, a latch that could be turned and used to exit the plane.

His father's words haunted him. "You've disappointed me." Surely his father wouldn't have approved of this decision. Dropping to the floor, he put his body into it, turning the latch with all his might.

After a few minutes, the latch was gone, and the air tunnel the plane created swept Drake's hair up. Suicide was better than what would come in Genosha. Turning his head, he spotted the emergency life jacket on the wall. Life was better than suicide.

He strapped it on his back, took a deep breath and dove headfirst out of the plane. He didn't get three feet out of the plane.

"Going somewhere, Mr. Baxter?"

He turned, but he knew the voice. "As a matter of fact, I was just going out for some fresh air."

"Really now. Not getting any of those ideas I warned you about?"

"Absolutely not. Why would I want to escape when I could go to a neo-Nazi's private island?"

Magneto's eyes grew wide, and he swept his arms up. Drake felt the magnetic force holding him in the air release, and he was falling. Suddenly, he was swept back up and thrust into the side of the plane with a force that broke his ribs instantly. He cried out in pain, but refused to cry in front of Magneto.

Magneto floated close to Drake and spit in both eyes. "I was in the Holocaust, as was my family. Any reference to Nazis from here will result in loss of limbs. Or life. Is that understood?"

"Go # yourself."

Being thrust through two plane windows didn't improve the state of his broken ribs, but it did shut him up. He didn't say a word for the rest of the flight.


End file.
